


Play Ball

by r_lee



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: C-Bucs, Gen, Pyramid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2011-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:20:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r_lee/pseuds/r_lee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An entirely fabricated look at Samuel T. Anders pre-canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play Ball

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anythingbutblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anythingbutblue/gifts).



It never hurts that he stands 6'3 and weighs in at a cool slender 190 pounds. It never hurts that he has a killer smile and a manner about as affable as anybody ever. It never hurts that he's always willing to work extra hard to be the best at what he does, that he shows up early every day for practice, that word on the street says no one works harder or tries harder than Samuel T. Anders. It never hurts that his attitude in every game is shoot until he can't, or that he's always willing to stick around afterward and sign autographs, or take new players under his wing and help them become the best pyramid players they can be. It never hurts that he's a natural leader. It never hurts that he has a raw talent for the game but more than that, he has an affinity for the way it works, an instinct for improving it and himself, and an abiding love for the very idea of pyramid that speaks to him on such a deep gut level that he can't deny it even if he tries. Either he was made for the game or the game was made for him, and it doesn't matter which is more true. There's an inherent perfection in both eventualities, and all his life, he's been looking for that.

*

The level of dissociation and that feeling he's sinking right into the ocean waters is normal. It has to be and yeah, what everyone's telling him is right: there's no going back to the way things were. It's just... frak everything, frak it all. He's only seventeen and a smart frakking mouthy seventeen-year-old, but they're gone and he can't believe it. Like he just woke up from one frak of a frakking bad dream that went on for months and months, he blinks it all out of his eyes, runs his hands through his hair, lets out a sigh, looks up into the ever-present cloudy skies of his home planet. Why did he think moving to Queenstown was a good idea again? Was he so frakked up by the news that he had to change frakking _everything?_

He guesses so, and he's here now, and the last thing he wants to do -- the _last_ godsdamn thing -- is finish high school at a new school. But he's got a room in a house where a couple other guys his age have rooms, and a lock on his door and a job at an all-night diner to pay for it, and after school he has practice. He keeps himself busy. He keeps himself too frakking tired to have the time to think about the fact that he's seventeen years old and an orphan. No parents, no family. Frak, things change fast.

It's shock and grief, he knows, that make all the memories so fuzzy. He was... he was at work -- no, he was at practice, that's it, summer intensive, pre-school-year pyramid camp -- when his coach came over and said _sit down, Sam, we've just had a phone call._ Right after hearing the words _there's been an accident_ all the rest of it's just so much static in his brain. Research vessel sank, no survivors, if there's anything anyone can do just say the word. He barely remembers the subsequent conversation with Coach about how he'd have a better chance at being scouted if he was in Queenstown; that's the home of the Panthers and the center of pyramid activity, and suddenly either being scouted or getting himself an athletic scholarship became a matter of urgency. Frak yeah, he'd live up to that promise he made his dad when he was... what, twelve? that he'd play pyramid in the pros some day? Bring some pride to the family?

Frak, he still can't believe they're gone.

He still can't believe he's seventeen years old and has to do it all alone. That's... not right, and it's not fair, and he works so frakking hard at not falling apart, and no one sees it. No one gets to see him weak or sad or not at his absolute frakking best. It's something he does for the memory of his mom, his dad. It's something he _has_ to do for himself, or he won't make it through. This tough time, this year, this... loneliness. The only thing he wants, he realizes, is to do them proud and they're not even here to see it. But they're somewhere. Somewhere, they know.

_Gods. I miss you, mom and dad._

*

_IN THIS FIRST ROUND OF THE COLONIAL PYRAMID ASSOCIATION DRAFT, THE NINTH-PLACE ARCHERS FROM SAGITTARON SELECT... FROM THE UNIVERSITY AT DELPHI, FOURTH YEAR FORWARD GUARD SAMUEL T. ANDERS._

Frak: looks like he's headed to Sagittaron. Better learn not to swear or to smile, and he better learn not to get sick. It's a kick, though, getting picked up in the first round, and by a pretty good team; only a select few (all real motherfrakkers) expect that. He didn't. Yeah, he had a _great_ college career, a great one, and pyramid paid for it all. Liking Caprica as much as he does? That was never part of his plan, but native son of Picon that he is, he was kind of hoping for the Panthers. It doesn't matter, though: he's grateful as anything, and he knows just because he's a first-round pick doesn't mean a godsdamn thing. They'll stick him in their farm team and he'll work his way up, because that's how things happen.

He's gonna get to play pyramid with the pros.

He's gonna frakking get to play pyramid with the--

"Hold on." It's his coach from the University. "Don't put on that Archers cap yet." Most people, they're here with their families, their parents, but he doesn't have any and he's with his coach and _his_ family instead. "I mean, put it on, but don't expect it to stay on. There's... hang on, Sam, hang on." Coach has his phone pressed to his ear and there's excited squawking coming out of it but he can't make any of it out and the anticipation? It's enough to drive him frakking _crazy,_ and there are reporters and microphones, and someone shoves a mic in his face and asks how it feels to be going to Sagittaron and he smiles a million-watt smile and tells them it's great, he loves the Archers, any chance to play, man, any chance to play.

_IN THIS FIRST ROUND OF THE COLONIAL PYRAMID ASSOCIATION DRAFT, THE EIGHTH-PLACE WILDCATS FROM LEONIS TRADE THEIR FIRST AND SECOND ROUND PICKS AND A SUM TO BE DISCLOSED LATER TO THE SAGITTARON ARCHERS FOR FORWARD GUARD SAMUEL T. ANDERS._

"It's true," says one of the commentators covering the draft up there on the TV screen, "the Wildcats need a good strong forward guard, and they've had their eye on Anders since his second year at Delphi. Obviously, Frank, this deal was in the works from the start, and now Sagittaron gets two good picks -- and cash -- so they're up again. Let's see what they do next. The clock is running."

Wait, frak _him:_ incredulous, he takes that Archers hat off, shrugs at Coach, and sits back. Now he feels like the luckiest bastard in all twelve colonies: who in their right mind wouldn't want to go to Leonis? And more than that, what a frakking ego boost to be worth two high picks and cash. The head of scouting for the Wildcats comes over to him, the official team cap in hand, beaming like a godsdamn idiot to shake his hand. "Don't you go anywhere, Sam. Word is Picon wants you, but there won't be any more deals. Welcome to the Wildcats, son." Now it's Coach's turn to get congratulated, and they all get their pictures taken together.

Up on the screen, while the clock's ticking on Sagittaron for their next pick, they run a little interview with Coach. _Let's talk to the man who might just be the closest thing Sam Anders has to family. For the past four years, he's nurtured this young raw talent into a first-round pick._ The words and pictures melt on the screen; the Wildcats guy -- name's Eldon St. Pierre -- claps him on the shoulder. "We hear you're using Darwin Duke. He's a good agent. We've already been in touch with him" -- St. Pierre looks down at his watch like the whole thing's happening on schedule -- "but don't let him frak you around by telling you you'll do better with one of the glamor teams. We stand by our picks until we say so, Sam. You don't mind if I call you Sam, do you?"

"Hey, it's my name." No, he doesn't mind. He doesn't mind at all. The day's great, and his phone rings, and he shakes hands with St. Pierre and puts on that Wildcats hat and smiles for the camera and then does it again until the Archers announce their next pick (rear guard Emily Lacross from the College of New Hades on rough-and-tumble Canceron). And then they're off to the next story, and he sees built-like-a-bull Emily beaming and waving, family in the background. She can carry the Archers to victory and he hopes she does. He hopes all their dreams come true.

His just have.

*

"Samuel T. Anders." Boyd McDaniel, head coach for the Caprica Buccaneers, reaches out to shake his hand. "It's an honor, son. You're here alone? No entourage?"

It's only half a joke; Sam returns the handshake with a solid firmness and an honest smile. "Frakking hangers-on, who needs them. No, I like to go it solo. Parked out there" -- his head tilts in the vague direction of outside -- "and found my way in. I always liked playing here." The cavernous underbelly of Atlas Arena is like its very own city. He remembers the first time he played here, when he was still with the Wildcats. Got called up at the very end of the season, played fourteen minutes, scored a great goal -- rookie luck, they all said -- then nearly had his right arm torn off by the C-Bucs' center.

"Well, far be it for me to meddle in the business side of pyramid. I only care about numbers if they're on a scoreboard. But I'm glad it's just the two of us. We have high hopes for you, Sam, and on behalf of the Buccaneers, I'm _really_ glad to have you here. We've taken a lot of hits, a lot of them, and as coach I can tell you I need a forward guard who's not only smart enough to listen to what I tell him and execute those moves out there at game time, but one who's smart enough to come up with his own spin on things." Coach shakes his head in an _I'm not done yet so don't interrupt_ way. "I've watched you since you were with Leonis, and I watched you when you made it out of their farm system, and I watched them when they were godsdamn foolish and greedy enough to send you to the Vipers, but I knew you had too much personality for Gemenon, even injured and sidelined. We're a close-knit family here in Caprica City. The Bucs might have had a few too many losses the past couple seasons, but there's not a single person on this team -- and by that I mean the _whole_ team: the front office, management, the coaching staff, the players -- who's not damn glad to have you. And if we feel that way, imagine how the fans feel."

He nods his new star forward guard to the tunnel leading out into the arena. "Every game, 65,000 fans fill those seats. Even the nosebleed ones way up there: every frakking game. They're dying to see the spark that'll light a fire under this team. They think they need the Kobol Cup, but what they really need, Sam, just between you and me, is to know that somewhere, some day, this team they love _could_ bring it home. Hope dies hard in pyramid. They'll love you and they'll hate you, they'll cheer for you and throw things at you, but what they really want to be able to do is _claim_ you. They want to be a part of the magic. And that's why we worked so hard to get you here, Sam: we need you to be the match that lights the flame. We need someone to come in and take charge, to whip these motherfrakkers into shape. You do that -- you give everyone the hope they need to raise their game to the next level -- and the C-Bucs will never let you go. You do that, and you've got a home here in Caprica City for as long as you can stand it."

It's a frak of a welcoming speech; Atlas Arena is pretty godsdamn overwhelming on its own, but when it comes with a set of expectations like that? He's good, but he's no miracle worker. It takes eight people and he's only one. Turning to Coach McDaniel, he grins. "But no pressure, right?"

Coach lets out a hearty laugh. "Who said anything about pressure. Just stay healthy, don't get injured again. That shoulder's a hundred percent now, right? Tell me the scouting reports didn't lie."

"No, no, it's good. It's good, I'm good." Sucks to find yourself pinned under a pile of mad-as-frak ball players and hear that telltale sickening snap, lose all the feeling in your hand and arm, not be able to so much as move without feeling like you're gonna pass out. At first he thought his shoulder was only separated, but no, his frakking collarbone was fractured. He thought that was it, that his career was over at 27, but he worked like a frakking _dog_ for eight months to get back into shape. "Tell you what, Coach. You put me through whatever paces you want. You don't think I'm up to snuff, I'll tell my agent the deal's off. But I can guarantee" -- he pauses there, determined -- "you won't be disappointed."

Later, after a grueling but victorious game of one-on-one, Coach tells him he was never worried, but he's sure as hell glad to know that Samuel T. Anders is the genuine article and that his reputation as one frak of a hard worker is an honest one. "Caprica's going to love you like you wouldn't believe, Sam. I hope you're prepared for it."

*

"We were lucky enough to sit down at Studio B with C-Bucs team captain Samuel T. Anders after the game last night. Despite the heartbreaking 15-14 loss to the Twins, he was gracious enough to stop by. We chatted for about a half hour. You won't want to miss this conversation with the man who's supposed to bring the Kobol Cup back to Caprica. Highlights up next."

Normally he doesn't watch himself on the news or on the sports shows. He doesn't read interviews with himself in magazines or in the newspaper, although he will read critiques and analyses of games and gameplay. Taking the brunt of the shit dished out at the C-Bucs goes with the C on his jersey; he's the most recognizable face on the team, the one out there in the spotlight most often. It's a bonus that he's good with the media, that he has a face people like to see, that he's personable and well-spoken and relatively intelligent. That's why they pay him the big salary. The reporter, a former rear guard for the Mangala Krill by the name of Vicki Nealy, knows her shit, knows her pyramid, and the interview's a decent one. From the comfort of his living room, a tall glass of ice water at his side and a heating pad over his left shoulder, he watches as the camera gives a nice panoramic view of C-City and the Pantheon Bridge, the river, the harbor, Apollo Park, and Atlas Arena. The voice-over picks up.

 _Caprica City and Atlas Arena, home of the Caprica Buccaneers. Six years ago, fresh off an injury season, Samuel T. Anders came over from the Gemenon Vipers and the C-Bucs began what's been a very long series of rebuilding years. The closest they've come to bringing the Kobol Cup home to Caprica was two years ago, when they were bounced out of the playoffs in the second round by the Olympia Stallions. And of course, who can forget last year's first-round elimination against the Aerilon Threshers? We spoke with Samuel T. Anders about those losses, last night's loss, the whole concept of rebuilding the team, and what he thinks he still has to offer the C-Bucs._ The camera cuts to the studio, where he's sitting as casually as his lanky frame can manage, his chair and Vicki's separated by a little table with a water bottle on it -- his -- and he leans forward to give her all his attention. He's good that way and reporters eat it up, always tell him they love how attentive he is to their questions, how he remembers what they ask and takes the time to answer it.

"Let's start with the question on everyone's mind tonight, Sam. This was a tough loss, and a few times the C-Bucs came close to taking the lead and dominating the game, but you never quite got there. As captain, what adjustments do you think need to be made so your team _can_ turn these bitter losses into victories?"

"Yeah." He nods, a thoughtful nod. "It's a good question but first let me say this: I'm the captain but I'm not the coach. We have Coach McDaniel, and I would _never_ second-guess what he tells us." That's not entirely true; part of his job is to take direction and adapt it to the situation at hand, whatever's going on out there on the pyramid court. But on the record, no second-guessing. "So what that means, Vicki, in context with your question, is what can I do _personally_ to enhance those decisions Coach makes and when I look at it that way, all I can really talk about with any certainty is what changes _I_ can make to become a better player. A better forward guard, because we know that position holds a lot of sway, a lot of responsibility. So what I've been doing, what I'll keep doing all season, is taking my direction from Coach and finessing it to the best of _my_ ability. Encourage my teammates to do the same. When we click, when the C-Bucs move seamlessly like, like some well-oiled machine -- you've seen those games -- it's a thing of beauty. The physics of it, the science of the movement, the synergy. We _can_ play that way and we _do_ play that way. We just have to -- to find that balance where we do it all the time."

It might look like a polished politically correct non-answer, but there's a lot of truth in what he says.

"Now I know you're going to ask for specifics: that sounds good, but what does it mean in practice instead of in theory, right?"

Vicki lets out a laugh. "You opened that door and walked right through it. What specifics _do_ you have in mind?"

Settling forward, he rests his elbows on his knees and speaks from the heart. "I can't tell you specific plays, specific drills. That'd be shooting ourselves in the foot, giving out that kind of information. But I will tell you that as a team we've been working on the passing game extensively, and also trying out a bunch of new blocking techniques. And you know, Vicki, from your playing days -- stepping up the strength training. I've always been been real big on practice, practice, practice."

The camera cuts again to an overhead view of Atlas Arena, empty now, and Vicki's voice narrates. _On any given day, practice schedules are posted at the arena. The team's required to be there and the players never miss. But one man starts his days at Atlas Arena two to three hours before everyone else. Often the first one there and the last to leave, it's no wonder Sam Anders has a reputation as the hardest-working player in the game._

Back in the studio, Vicki Nealy leans toward him. "Your personal practice schedule is a well-known thing, the talk of the pyramid world." ( _I doubt that,_ he interrupts with a smile.) "What drives you? What is it that motivates Samuel T. Anders to strive for so much?"

It's another really good question; he thinks it now and he thought it at the time. In situations like this he often can't remember exactly how he answered, but he's a spur-of-the-moment kind of guy and doesn't plan out his answers in advance like some people (Ten-Point) have to. From the sanctuary of his home, he listens as avidly as anyone else. "What motivates me to get up every morning, to get over there, to work out? That's easy: every person who's ever watched the C-Bucs hoping for a victory, that's what motivates me, because I want to be able to -- at the end of the day, I need to be able to look in the mirror and say I gave it my best. I did the absolute best I could. If we won, great, but it doesn't mean I get to rest on those laurels. It means that everyone I play against, they saw the victory too and they'll be picking apart game tapes just like I will, making adjustments for it for the next game and the one after that and the one after that, so that means I have to keep stepping up _my_ game. And the only way to do it -- the _only_ way -- is through hard work." On screen, he stops for a sip of water. "And if we lost, well, it just means I have a lot of work to do to see to it that I don't make the same mistakes twice. So yeah. What motivates me? It's the fans, the fans of the game."

"When there's a loss like tonight's, where it was so close, what do you say to the fans?" Vicki looks down at her notes, makes a check-mark next to something, but then looks right back at him.

He runs a hand across the back of his neck. "I say we should've done better. And you can bet your asses I'll be at Atlas tomorrow morning reviewing the day's tapes, looking for mistakes, and doing my best to correct them. If you see me pulling the same losing moves twice in a row, you're right to be upset. _I'm_ upset. Pyramid is... it's not a game that's easy to measure. Sure, you keep track of points scored but there's a lot more going on out there than you see on the screen. I wish every single person could be out there on the court with us to... to experience the grit, the beauty, the -- the passion, the thrill of the game. But they can't, so it's my job, not just as captain but it's my personal mission, to bring that to everyone watching, everyone rooting for the C-Bucs. For everyone who crowds into a sports bar to watch, for everyone who shells out their hard-earned money to get in to see the game, for everyone watching at home, or following along online: they're the reason I play. For everyone who writes in, sends messages, calls the front office, stops me on the street to give me their opinion, I want you to know I pay attention and I listen, and your opinions and suggestions and words, they're invaluable. I read them all, I listen to them all."

"To all of them?"

"Every single one. Hey, we are _your_ team." Actually, they belong to the owners, but who's keeping track? "We belong to Caprica City. We're as much a part of this town as the town's a part of us."

The plea, he thinks, is a little impassioned but people like that and it's true. They wouldn't be here if it wasn't for the support of the fans, so all that is absolutely true. The camera cuts to a montage of fans at the game, waiting to get in, standing in line to buy tickets, watching at a local bar, waiting for the team at the spaceport, cheering them on, holding up a _Marry Me, Sam Anders!_ sign. There's a nice shot of the team giving high-fives to lucky front-row fans during the pre-game warm-up, taking the time to sign autographs, squaring off on the field. It's a nice slice-of-life piece that would've been better served if someone like Barolay was interviewed -- she's a whore for the camera, looks way better on TV than he does -- but he's not complaining. The interview does exactly what he wants: it sets the C-Bucs squarely down in the middle of the community as a kind of cornerstone for the whole godsdamn city.

On-screen, Vicki nods to him one more time. "On behalf of C-Bucs fans everywhere, thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to talk with us. This is Vicki Nealy along with Caprica's most eligible bachelor wishing everyone a good night."

In the quiet of his living room, he points the remote at the TV and watches as it flickers into darkness. Before standing he drinks that whole glass of water, moves the heating pad off his shoulder, and stands as slowly and carefully as any guy who voluntarily gets beat to shit three or four nights a week for three or four hours at a time. Tonight he can barely straighten up all the way, but that'll happen after two games in a row. He ignores the phone when it rings: he'll talk to his manager tomorrow morning to recap on the interview, on ways to improve the message he's sending. But for tonight he's done. Lights out, he stops by the sliding glass doors that open onto the deck and peers up into the night sky. The lights of Caprica City are too bright and only a couple of stars manage to twinkle their way through, but he leans up against that glass and watches them like some little kid who wants to wish on the evening star. Tomorrow's workout's going to be here early and he really needs sleep but for a moment, just one, he revels in the solitude, the privacy, and the absolute quiet. For one blessed moment, he's just Sam, no more, no less.

Just Sam.


End file.
